Pitchfork

Yuki Chikudate is a hopeless romantic, damaged and done wrong by the weird arc of love. The feelings that remain vital are unpredictable free radicals; they come out in couplets of both Japanese and English, glomming onto the spiny keels and shimmering dream-pop textures that wash over Asobi Seksu's self-titled Friendly Fire debut. The usual suspects crackle through Seksu in big honking waves, but there are also little moments of light-- whether in the varied arrangements or Yuki's bilingual lead vocals-- that stipple the set with unique enough sunspots.

The record's a promising start for the New York City group, which finds the beguiling, keyboard-playing Yuki joined by three white guys straight outta indie rock central casting. "I'm Happy But You Don't Like Me" rocks cutesy Puffy Amiyumi phrasing over hooting synths and James Hanna's thousand foot-high rhythm guitar. It's a breezy, slightly kitschy opener, but before long, Asobi Seksu are dwelling in suspended emotion and the cathartic salve of deafening electric guitar. "Sooner"'s English-language harmony vocals murmur intimately in lovers' whisper-speak, periodically conceding to Hanna, who attempts to re-harness the power of Medicine to shear off the top of the universe. It's a dynamic familiar to denizens of shoegaze (not to mention Sonic Youth-- check Hanna's quite referential "Let Them Wait"), but Asobi Seksu largely gets away with copping it, since the cred gatekeepers will admit that the tones are achingly cool, and at a nice counterpoint to Yuki's pattering keys and pristine vocal chirp.

Seksu save their best for the middle. "It's Too Late" begins as an echoing, halting ballad, like background music for a slow-motion airport terminal goodbye. Yuki channels the breathy cynicism of Bettie Serveert's Carol Van Dijk ("Run away now, there's nothing to say") and you feel the anger behind the sobs. Naturally, there's punctuation, via layers of piercing guitar wail. The racket subsides for a spell, but like the rawest emotions they come back, screaming and hissing through two-plus minutes of electronic and pedal-driven squelch. It's the album's truest point because it's evocative in its own skin.

Asobi Seksu do need some work with the glue. Uniting their slickest chimes and peals are a few under-thought numbers ranging from the saw-it-coming department (the lilting to roaring closer "Before We Fall"), to frustrating stuff that ends too soon (the grinding "Asobi Masho" is a randy, art-battered tease). That said, it's a quality debut, obviously indebted to its influences, but finding new and artful ways to swallow love with a guitar.